


a bright yellow sunflower (burning like a candle flame)

by blasphemyincarnate



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ghost Angelica Schuyler, Ghost Characters, Ghost John Laurens, Ghost Thomas Jefferson, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Moving On, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, TW: Implied School Shooting, TW: Referenced Gang Death, they're both pretty minor and there's rlly only one line about the gang death but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemyincarnate/pseuds/blasphemyincarnate
Summary: “You better hope he doesn’t,” Maria Lewis says. Suddenly, she is sitting on your gravestone. Angelica is stood next to her, and Thomas behind them. Even Aaron Burr has wandered over, curled up next to your grave. This world - the souls and the gravestones and the bright yellow sunflower - seems to hold its breath, waiting for Maria Lewis’s words. “He’ll never move on like that.”





	a bright yellow sunflower (burning like a candle flame)

**Author's Note:**

> idrk what this is but I liked the second POV and the idea of if so here have this

Here is the thing: you’re dead. You are incredibly, irreversibly, irretrievably dead. 

You don’t realize this by being dead, of course. You realize this when you try to walk out of the graveyard you’re confused about being in in the first place and fall to your knees by the gentle tug in your gut that turned into a piercing, scream-inducing harpoon, the line connected to something inside the graveyard. 

A girl with dark skin and dark eyes and dark hair leaning on a gravestone that reads _ Angelica Schuyler _ snorts at your suffering and walks away. You inch back into the graveyard and push yourself up, following the tug back to a small plot of land you recognize. The first time you were here was eleven years ago and you collapse again, in front of _ Eleanor Laurens_.

Some horrible realization is beginning to make itself known in your mind, and your eyes drag slowly to your right, past _ James Laurens, beloved son and brother_, past two empty gravestones for miscarried and never named twins, to rest on _ John Laurens, beloved_.

And then they move up, to see reddish brown hair and calloused writer’s hands. To Alexander.

You scramble across the ground, translucent hands leaving your mother’s grave. You kneel next to yours and look up, choking out, “_Alex_.”

“Hi, J.,” he whispers, the way he used to after coming home late from the office, at one and two and three AM, slipping into bed next to you. Sometimes he’d say more, but you never remember what it was. You just remember those soft words - a wildfire calmed to a candle flame.

You say his name again and put your head against the white stone. It feels cold, but muted. _ You _feel cold, but muted.

“He can’t hear you,” a girl says. You turn around and see the dark girl, see _ Angelica Schuyler _and her tight lips. “No one living can.”

You think about that for a moment and think about how it makes you feel. Nothing, really. You knew that. You tell her as much.

Angelica smiles. “A rational mind, I like that. You should’ve seen the last one, crying and screaming like his life depended on it. Begging his ancient mother to hear him.”

“Miss you lots,” says the candle flame. Alexander shakes his head and smiles, bitterly. “Look what you’ve done to me - a man of so many words and yet I can’t come up with any for you now.”

He places a single sunflower on your grave, a bright spot of light in the dark and gloomy graveyard. 

“Walk with me,” Angelica says. You can’t decide if it sounds like an offering or a command. You can decide it doesn’t matter - so you stand up, and walk with her.

“So, how old were you?” Angelica asks, hand closest to you in her pocket. She strolls along the path, other hand brushing the tops of gravestones. You make and break eye contact with a young woman in a red dress hiding behind a tree before answering.

“Twenty three. You… you were seventeen, right?” You ask hesitantly. You’ve heard of Angelica Schuyler. You’ve held her sisters while they cried.

Angelica nods, casual. You tell her she doesn’t look seventeen. She nods again. “I age with my sisters. I’m just old enough to be their strength, always. They’re what’s keeping me here.”

You ask her what she means. “Not every dead person becomes a ghost, Laurens. There’s something keeping us here.” She nods at a little boy, curled up by a grave that reads _ Aaron Burr_. “His mother left him alone in their trailer, promised she’d be back. She was gone for three days and found him frozen at the entrance of the trailer park. He’s waiting for his mom to come home.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you don’t. Angelica points out the red woman. “That’s Maria Lewis. Her boyfriend beat her to death last week - I expect she’s waiting for the court case to finally go through.” 

You look around for a bit and see a few more wandering souls. None look older than forty. “Everyone’s so young.”

Angelica shrugs and stops by another grave, which she rests her hand on. “Most old people have come to terms with moving on. Or die normal deaths.” You don’t think forty year olds have come to terms with it, but you don’t say anything. “Thomas,” Angelica says gently. “Come meet John Laurens.”

A tall boy fades into view from nowhere. “Hi, John Laurens,” he says plaintively - then he pauses and narrows his eyes at you. “Wait, I know you.”

You glance at the gravestone. _ Thomas Jefferson, gone to the Lord too early_. “Jefferson,” you say. “Thomas Jefferson. We had APUSH together junior year.”

“Ah,” Thomas says. He lifts a finger. “We had APUSH together _ half _ of junior year.” He smiles, bitterly. “Oh, how the NRA’s hands reek of blood.” He reminds you a lot of Alex, and you tell him that after getting the panging in your heart under control. “Of course I would. Everyone said that. It’s probably why we didn’t get along too well.”

A pause. “So,” Thomas begins. “What brings you to our fine establishment?”

Angelica frowns at him and says, “That’s rude, Thomas,” but you’ve already opened your mouth.

“Accidentally walked into the middle of a gang confrontation,” you tell him. “Redcoats and Colonists. Got shot. Bled out in the middle of the street.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows, almost impressed, it seems. “Ask me anything,” he says. “Question for a question.”

You ask him why he’s still here. He hesitates, shrugs, says, “Jemmy, probably.” You all pretend that you don’t noticeably flinch when he says Jemmy. “James Madison. I went back into the classroom for him. Got a bullet through the head for my efforts. He’s still alive, though. Wonder how he is.”

You think about telling him that James Madison is much too quiet nowadays, and he only wears big magenta sweaters, and that he got through college in two years and got hospitalized from the stress that was destroying his body. You think about telling him that James Madison never leaves the house unless someone - usually Hercules or Peggy - forces him to and that he’s always the first to leave a social gathering.

“He’s as okay as he can be,” you settle on, and hope it isn’t too big a lie. 

There’s a commotion near the front of the graveyard and Maria Lewis appears behind you. She taps your shoulder and says, quietly, “You might want to go say goodbye to your boy.” Her eyes burn bright and she practically spits the end of the sentence, but her hands are soft and her mouth is shaped into a gentle smile.

You do as she says. You follow the tug in your gut back to your gravestone and wrap a hand around Alexander’s. His calloused, writer’s hands. 

He shivers slightly and glances down at his hands before shoving them into his pockets. “Love you, J.,” he says. “See you next week.”

You watch him turn and walk away, the candle flame sparking back into a wildfire with each step he takes.

“You better hope he doesn’t,” Maria Lewis says. Suddenly, she is sitting on your gravestone. Angelica is stood next to her, and Thomas behind them. Even Aaron Burr has wandered over, sitting patiently next to your grave with bright, intelligent eyes. This world - the souls and the gravestones and the bright yellow sunflower - seems to hold its breath, waiting for Maria Lewis’s words. “He’ll never move on like that.” 

  


**Author's Note:**

> am a slut for comments and kudos pls


End file.
